


Ik-Kemath

by EarendilElwing



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Apartheid and Racial Issues, Eventual Bagginshield, Eventual Character Death, M/M, Tragic Romance, on temporary hiatus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-20 00:41:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4767095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EarendilElwing/pseuds/EarendilElwing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time he’d heard it, he was half-convinced he’d been dreaming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again! This is one of two stories that were inspired by the same concepts. The first was a lack of stories that explore any musical ability that Bilbo might have. It was also sparked when I reread “The Nightingale” by Hans Christian Andersen, though it was more of an inspiration than any sort of retelling.
> 
> Chapters for this story will be much shorter than my usual style and far less detailed, and updates will be infrequent as I am currently working on TEN different story projects. I’m playing around with different styles too, so you’ll likely see a variance in how I write these. This one is somewhat modeled after old fairy tales in that it’s much more narrative and less dialogue.
> 
> Notes: AU in which Erebor never fell, but the Battle of Azanulbizar still took place. Timelines and ages are not consistent with the book or movie verse.

The first time he’d heard it, he was half-convinced he’d been dreaming.

It began one winter night, when Thorin Oakenshield, crown prince of Erebor, had found himself unable to sleep.  It was not an uncommon occurrence; ever since the Battle of Azanulbizar, he, like many of his kin, were yet haunted by the horrors they’d witnessed and experienced there.  Though they did not fully reclaim the lost kingdom, some comfort was to be found in that the greatest of their foes, Azog the Defiler, had been slain by Thorin’s hand, and the number of orcs left to haunt the Misty Mountains was severely diminished.

Thorin lost his younger brother Frerin in that battle, and his sister Dis had also lost her husband.  Many of his friends and kin parted from loved ones on the bloody field, and even now, some months later, there was a current of grief like a morning mist permeating the life of Erebor.

That night, Thorin woke from a night terror and was unable to go back to sleep.  It was far too early to rise for the day, but he thought he might be able to return to some semblance of rest if he wore himself out with training.  It was his own standard remedy for wakefulness, and so he dressed lightly, strapped a common sort of sword to his back, and left his rooms.  When he exited the royal wings of the mountain, he was followed at a distance by two guards, but he was used to it and paid them no mind.

The training rooms were located near the entrance to the great gates of Erebor so that they were accessible to everyone, regardless of social standing.  The quickest path to them followed a massive, central staircase that wound it’s way past the lower class districts, though the descent to them was a workout in and of itself.  It was one of the few places in the kingdom that Thorin could claim to be able to locate without assistance.  He could find it in his sleep if he wished, which was very well, since he was still a bit groggy.  

Erebor never slept, and dwarrow smiths of every trade imaginable worked at all hours, adding to the splendor of their home.  As such, one could always hear the clanking ring of the hammer on anvil, resounding throughout the marble halls like a merry bell, or the careful taps of picks upon the stone, their wielders prying gems from the earth as carefully as one might crack a nut.  In addition, there were various parts of the kingdom in which voices carried easily and dwarrows less guarded in their speech, to the degree that the Spy Guild need not overexert their skills to overhear gossip and other news of great interest.  

It was amazing that Thorin heard it at all above such comforting clamour, but somewhere underneath the tumultuous storm was a simple breeze, a whisper hiding in screams.  And thus, as he drew away from the less ornate halls of the nobles and closer to these lower class districts, he began to hear a soft, singing voice.

He stopped and listened.  “Do you hear that?” he asked his escort.

The dwarrows glanced at one another in their confusion.  “Hear what, your highness?”

Thorin craned his head this way and that as he walked on to find a better vantage to listen, his guards close behind.  When they drew away from the corridors overlooking the markets and passed the guilds dedicated to quieter crafts, such as Weaving and Record Keeping, the guards confirmed that they too could hear the voice.

It sounded shaky, unsure of itself, but beautiful nonetheless.  It was unlike anything Thorin had ever heard before, which is why he turned his full attention to it.  He was a practiced musician himself, and thought he had already heard the best the Lonely Mountain, or even the surrounding kingdoms, had to offer.  But he was quite wrong.

The voice sang in a tongue that he was not at all familiar with; he could not even begin to interpret their direct meaning.  But it was languid and low, and he guessed with some degree of confidence that it was a lament.

It was utterly heartbreaking, a sob turned into a song, and it pierced his heart in a way nothing else had since he’d lost his brother.  In that moment, he felt the stoic walls he had built up around himself begin to crumble, and the weight of the grief that he buried with Frerin returned.  Unbeknownst to him, tears unbidden streamed down his face, and he remained motionless in his path.

His guards had been keeping a respectable distance when they started out, and even when Thorin had stopped and strained to hear the strange song, they did not fully approach.  But when several long moments passed with no further progress, they warily drew nearer and tried to prompt some response.

Thorin could never remember how he came to be back in his room, curled and weeping on his bed.  The only thing he knew for certain was that when he woke late the next afternoon, he did not feel nearly as burdened, and he was no longer ashamed to admit his struggles to his family.

He didn’t know why, but he believed that was the aim of the mysterious voice.

* * *

Several days had passed before he gave thought to the song again.  He had been otherwise preoccupied with reassuring his father that he was well, and would henceforth resist his inclination to conceal his worries from him.  Thràin’s fears were not unfounded.  The former king, Thròr, had descended into a madness that ultimately claimed his life, leaving his son and grandson to wonder if such a fate would be theirs.  Thràin had worried that Thorin’s increased silence and seeming lack of sorrow was an early warning sign, but thanks to the sudden outburst, his concern was subdued, for the time being.

 Thorin began to ponder the source of the voice during a drawn-out meeting with his father’s council.  It was male, of that he was sure, but higher than that of the average dwarf.  It was a smooth tenor, capable of reaching up to a low alto at times.  He had heard both dwarrows and elves perform in that range, but there was such a different quality that led him to believe that the singer was neither.  There was a humility and honesty to it, and Thorin could admit that such things were not the defining attributes of his people’s music, and it was certainly not so of the elves.

He wanted to meet him, whoever or whatever he was.  Even he didn’t clearly know his purpose for this, but Thorin was not one to change his mind once it was decided.  Unfortunately, his duties as Crown Prince dictated how his day progressed, and he wasn’t willing to lay this task on another.  Instead, he chose to spend at least some time at night returning to the area where he’d first heard the voice, hoping to hear it once more.  If his guards guessed the reason for his nighttime wanderings, they said nothing, neither to him or their superiors.

Some time passed before he finally heard it again.  He was on his way to the Weapons’ Forge to work on a birthday gift for his nephew, Fili.  His escort was actually the one who pointed it out this time, stopping him with a tentative prod.

“My lord... listen!” he said.

Thorin glanced up from studying his sketch for a set of twin swords and concentrated.  Once more, the gentle strains of a melodious song waded placidly amidst the tumult of iron, steel, and silver being beaten into forms both beautiful and deadly.

It was not a weeping dirge this time, but rather something lively and jubilant.  He wondered if the vocalist was celebrating some joyous occasion.  Rapid, staccato notes jumped high and dipped low like a fit of uncontrollable laughter, and Thorin let his own mouth twitch in amusement with the zealous singer.

He considered setting aside his task in order to search for it again, but thought better of it.  He resumed his journey to his personal work space in the forge, internally debating which ores and gems to use in his project.  Hours passed in pleasant labor, and it wasn’t until much later that he realized that he’d spent the entire time humming the quiet, catchy tune.

The winter months passed ever slowly.  Thorin heard the voice many times over the course of the season, but he was never able to locate the source.  He heard it most clearly when he was near the low class districts or the markets, but the dense population and sheer size of those areas rendered that realization of no use.

The songs it uttered varied with each performance.  He heard more laments, lullabies, possibly some drinking songs, and something that he guessed might have been a folk tune.  Every one was sung in that same, unknown tongue, and while Thorin was no scholar and took little interest in other languages, he craved to know the meaning of the words.

In his mind and heart, he called the singer _Ik-kemath_ , that is: The Voice.  Thorin knew no other address or title to call him, but he was determined that he would learn the true name one day.

Sadly, his desire was thwarted when all traces of it abruptly ceased as winter faded, and the doors of Erebor were thrown open to welcome the spring.  No matter where Thorin wandered and no matter the hour, he could not find even a whisper or hum of _Ik-kemath_ again.  His mood darkened at this, but no amount of effort on his part brought him any closer to solving the puzzle of the voice.

At the turn of the year, new tasks were laid upon Thorin, draining his energy so that he could no longer afford to give up rest for his private quest.  They always changed with the seasons, and the warmer months meant that he was busy arranging new trade deals with the men of Dale and Esgaroth while his father dealt with their other allies.

On the whole, Thorin felt discontented, though was unable to provide a cause for it.  He had plenty to do, and time with his family sometimes quieted his unease, but the voice never truly faded from his mind.   


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...he was just returning from a visit, when he finally... FINALLY heard it again. Ik-kemath had returned.

Time wore on without fail, but Prince Thorin never forgot _Ik-kemath_.  Yet after weeks and then months of oppressive silence, he inevitably gave up hope of ever finding him.

Spring bloomed into a hot summer, and summer into a plentiful harvest.  When the first frost settled upon the fields between Erebor and Dale, the residents of the Lonely Mountain made the necessary preparations to close their gates for the winter.

The initial snows of winter covered the lands around the mountain with the soft hush of a deep sleep.  Elvish songs were no longer heard beneath the bare trees of the Greenwood, but the children of men remained at play in daylight hours, enacting great historical battles with snowballs as their weapons.  When darkness fell, they were dragged inside the safety and warmth of their homes, sopping wet and worn, but victorious.

As for the dwarrows of Erebor, they continued on as they ever have, delving deep beneath the earth for the great stores of riches hidden in ages past by their maker, or smithing merchandise to be sold in the new year.  They took inventory of all that they had and fortified each entrance to the mountain, bracing themselves for what was to come.

That was well, for the first true storm of the season lasted almost a full week, and brought with it a coughing virus that had every healer in every clinic scrambling to tend to the massive influx of patients.  But dwarrows were hardy creatures, and only a handful of deaths was attributed to the epidemic.

Even the royal family was touched by the sickness.  Lady Dis was confined to her rooms for two days, though no more.  She would not be overcome, neither by the words of others nor any illness, and had returned to her duties faster than any other.  Her sons were also affected, but they were waylaid far longer.  However, their healer, Master Oin, was certain they would recover, and gruffly insisted that their overprotective mother and uncle leave them be.

Thorin did his best to follow those orders, but he loved his nephews fiercely, and had experienced too much loss in recent years.  He visited them at every opportunity, and he might not have left their side at all, if something did not happen to draw his mind away.

As it was, he was just returning from a visit, when he finally... _finally_ heard it again. _Ik-kemath_ had returned.

It was stronger now, perhaps more sure of itself, but it seemed angry and stricken, very unlike the happy tunes Thorin remembered when last he’d caught it.  The words were still indecipherable to him, but he knew at once that it, or rather he, was expressing both fury and grief.

Thorin immediately set aside his intended destination in favor of pursuing it once again, running at times, and leading his escort on quite a chase up and down the halls of his kingdom.  But just like the previous year, he listened and searched for hours, and came no closer to solving the puzzle.  One moment, the voice was strong and close, as though the singer was standing right next to him, but then it swiftly faded, fleeing so that it would not be discovered.

Many days and dark nights went by once again, and Thorin’s frustration increased with each failed attempt to find _Ik-kemath_.  His immediate family, all of them fully recovered, did not fail to notice his sudden long absences and sullen countenance, but in spite of their pleading, he would tell them nothing.  He did not want them to either tease him about this preoccupation or think him a fool.  Like most of his kin, he was rather proud, pressed by his forebears to be overly concerned with appearances.

But when a month passed with no further progress, he was forced to admit that if he truly wanted to discover the identity of _Ik-kemath_ , he would have to seek some assistance.  At length, he decided to confide his troubles to his cousin Balin, son of Fundin, who was wise and honest, and could be trusted to act with discretion if necessary.  As a counselor to the king, he retrained a wealth of knowledge on many subjects, which he freely shared, but he also didn’t shy away from challenges, or mince words for the sake of propriety.  Thorin held him in high regard, even if they disagreed at times.

At the first opportunity, Thorin sent a message to Balin, requesting his company for dinner and an ale.  It was quickly returned in the affirmative.  

They took a meal together in one of Thorin’s favorite pubs in Erebor’s market district, and after reminiscing of their recent endeavors and exchanging playful banter, Balin pressed the prince for the reason for their visit.

“As much as I have enjoyed this time together, Thorin,” he began with a sardonic but sincere smile, “I have never known you to arrange such a meeting with no purpose.”

“You wound me, old friend,” Thorin retorted, aghast.  “Perhaps I simply wished to escape my duties for a time to enjoy a more social activity.”

Balin stared at him wryly.  “You have many admirable qualities, my prince, but sociable is not one of them.”

Thorin’s lips twitched in agreeable amusement before fading to seriousness.  “I have an ongoing... ah... personal matter which I have been unable to resolve.  I need your advice.”

“Of course.”

Thorin spoke then without pause and described the beautiful voice that had him enthralled, his desire to find the creature that possessed it, and the inexplicable circumstances that prevented him from discovering the truth of the matter.  He had been trained from a young age to make very formal and lengthy speeches if the situation called for it, but he rarely waxed poetical about anything.  His words were hardly anything the scribes would be inclined to record, but they were certainly passionate.  

Balin listened without comment, though his eyebrows traveled further and further up his forehead in hearing this ardent discourse.  If he was confused or concerned about Thorin’s peculiar obsession, he did not say.  When Thorin was finished, he asked, “You said you’ve only heard the voice during the winter months?”  After receiving confirmation, he shrugged and said, “Well then, the answer to your riddle is obvious isn’t it?”

Thorin gave him a pointed look that said otherwise.

Balin shook his head and concluded, “Your mysterious singer is a hobbit.”

Thorin frowned.  “Hobbit?  You mean one of the halfings?”

“Yes, but do not call them that in their presence.  They consider it a very rude, derogatory term.  They won’t say it to you, since you’re the prince, but they’ll be very offended if you do, and will not aid you willingly if you say that to them.”

“Indeed?  I was not aware of that,” the prince admitted.  “But why are you so sure the voice belongs to a half- a hobbit?”

Balin appeared less-than-impressed with such a question.  “Because the hobbits reside here, in Erebor, during the winter and then leave for Dale in the spring.”  Thorin still seemed perplexed, so he wondered, “Are you not familiar with our arrangements with the hobbits?”

He shook his head.  “I have had no dealings with them.  They were...”

Balin caught on and closed his eyes sadly.  “Forgive me.  I had forgotten.  Negotiations with them were Frerin’s domain.”

Thorin swallowed thickly.  Their father, as the king, oversaw everything, but the entire royal family had a share of running the kingdom.  Thorin’s principal duties, while he was still the crown prince only, primarily involved the men of Dale and Esgaroth, as well as Erebor’s Weapon’s Smiths and army.  His sister, along with her sons, handled many of the mountain’s internal affairs, the jeweler’s guilds and the markets.  And Frerin, before his death, held converse with the hobbits and the Elves of the Greenwood.  Once he had gone, his duties reverted back to Thràin.

Balin cleared his throat.  “What _do_ you know of hobbits?”

Thorin knew very little, and admitted this to his friend.

“Ah well,” Balin said with a sigh, “I’d best give you some background then...”

And he told Thorin that in ages past, all hobbits were nomads, rarely at peace and unable to settle in one area for long, because the world was so full of danger.  Though they could be fierce and tough in a pinch, they were not warriors by nature, and they were vulnerable.  In order to ensure their own survival, they formed alliances with other races: men, elves, and dwarrows, offering their services in a variety of ways, the chief of which was the growing of food and beneficial plants.  They were beloved and blessed by Yavanna, and possessed the uncanny ability to coax all manner of flora from even the most inhospitable terrain.  So in exchange for protection and temporary dwellings, they tilled the land, and worked in such trades as they had skill.

In time, some of the more adventurous clans of hobbits did indeed desire to move on and build homes of their own, and they were granted lands governed by the kings of Gondor and Arnor.  With their permission, they moved west, closer to the Grey Havens, from which the elves set sail and leave Middle Earth forever.

Others, however, chose to remain where they were, the lands of Erebor being one of them.  Eventually, they entered into treaties with the Elves of the Greenwood, the men of Dale, and the dwarrows of Erebor.

“The hobbits with whom we currently have dealings spend the spring and summer months living in temporary shelters in the cities of men... Dale, for the most part.  They work the land side-by-side with them.  When the harvest comes, they transport their crops and other goods to Esgaroth for processing, and from there, ships issue forth to transport their wares to the Greenwood, Erebor, and many other nearby cities.  When all is done, and the first frosts of winter cover the earth, half of their population (for they are quite numerous) live as guests in the halls of the Elvenking, while the rest take refuge in Erebor with us.

“Within the mountain, the hobbits are housed in the lowest halls, mostly in the Bone Caverns.  While they are here, they are expected to work or apprentice themselves in the markets, the kitchens, or the clinics - anywhere they might apply their skills, as per the trade arrangements agreed upon by their representative and ours.  Service and goods for protection and shelter.”

Balin paused to let Thorin digest this information while he wet his throat with another ale.  Once he had finished, he went on.  “Aside from the season, the fact that you have been unable to trace the source of this voice when you hear it is another telling fact that would indicate a hobbit.  As you are well aware, the Bone Caverns where they live and the markets where they work are very close to the city’s main entrance, which is also the heart of the mountain’s ventilation systems.  Voices carry far through those tunnels, so it would not be unthinkable that you might hear the voice far from where its owner resides.”

“I see,” Thorin said slowly, processing all that Balin had told him, and agreeing with his conclusions.  “Well, that’s one part of the mystery solved.”

“True,” said Balin, “but I’m afraid that narrowing it down further will be another great challenge.  Hobbits are wary and distrustful, with good reason, unfortunately.  If you still wish to pursue this further, you’ll have to very careful about how you go about it.  They won’t just tell you what you want to know.”

Thorin kept silent, wondering what he should do, and contemplating if his desire to find _Ik-kemath_ was strong enough to warrant the effort.  But when he recalled the comfort and joy he’d found in the echoing songs, he decided that he did indeed wish to see this personal quest through.  “What do you recommend?”

Balin leaned back in his chair and stroked his beard, his eyes straying to the ceiling.  “Well, you could ask your father to set up a meeting with the Thain, that’s their leader by the way, but since you asked me for advice instead of him, I presume you don’t want him to know about it.”

Thorin nodded.  He might not know much about hobbits in general, but he did know that his father had little love for them.  He would be most displeased to learn that his son and heir had developed a fascination with one of them.

“Perhaps,” Balin mumbled thoughtfully, “you could talk to Dori.”

“Dori?” Thorin repeated.  Dori was another distant cousin.  The royal family had dealings with him and his brothers on occasion and liked them well enough, but they were not close in affection by any means.

“Yes.  He runs a tea shop in one of the middle-class markets, and he employs a number of hobbits during their stay.  He might be able to make some beneficial introductions.  Or at the very least, either he or his brother Nori may have overheard some information that might be useful to you.”

Thorin thought it over, and since he could think of no other options, he assented that it was a good place to start.  “Very well.  Would you set up a meeting for me?”

Balin smiled.  “Of course, my prince.  Might I recommend that you go to his shop during business hours?  I believe you might gain the most by observing the hobbits, in addition to speaking with Dori.  But I can certainly tell him to expect you and to make time to sit down and answer any questions you can think of.”

Thorin stood up and came to clap his friend on the shoulder.  “Excellent idea.  Thank you, Balin.  As always, you never fail to grant good counsel.  Thanks to you, I may soon see an end to this torment.”

Balin reciprocated the gesture.  “Not all.  I am happy to help.  I only hope that this whole thing turns out well for you in the end.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued...


	3. Chapter 3

Thorin rarely ventured far through the middle or lower class districts.  It wasn’t because he had a problem with doing so or had any issues with dwarrows below his station.  In fact, he rather enjoyed the sparse time spent with everyday folk, and away from the stuffy nobles that made up his father’s counsel.  It was just that his duties kept him in the royal wings or out of the Lonely Mountain altogether, preventing him from ever truly exploring the length and breadth and depth of the kingdom he would someday rule.  There was almost a sense of excitement to his mission, not only because of the prospect of gathering intelligence on _Ik-kemath_ , but also for the chance to truly see a portion of the glory of his people with his own eyes.

Erebor was primarily composed of three district levels characterized by the wealth and prestige (or lack thereof) of the dwarrows that lived there.  But within each level, there were seven municipalities: those in the upper districts were named for the Seven Fathers, the middle for the precious metals and ores most prized by his kind, and the lower for their functionality.  For example, the royal family and the highest nobles lived in **Durin the Deathless** ; the markets of the middle district were located in the **Golden Hammer** , and the tombs (and apparently, the temporary dwellings of the hobbits) were in the **Bone Caverns**.  These were the Westron names, of course, for dwarrows very rarely, if ever, revealed Khuzdul names, at least not since the Second Age.

Thorin knew that Dori was expecting him today, but he’d given Balin no appointed time for the meeting, which allowed him to wander the markets at his leisure.  He was no stranger to them, but he hadn’t thoroughly surveyed them since he and his siblings were dwarflings.  He took his time to look over the multitude of wares on display outside of shops, or note the wide variety of pubs and inns.  Nearly every dwarf bowed and greeted him cheerfully, and reveled in the attention if he stopped to examine their merchandise or try a proffered sample.

It wasn’t long before Thorin realized that many of the vendor stalls and shops were not, as he had assumed, occupied or operated by dwarrows alone.  Working and weaving around his people were smaller creatures that were rather oddly dressed.  The first thing he observed was that they had no shoes; their bare feet were large and covered with tufts of curly hair, and their owners moved with nary a sound.  They wore long-sleeved white undershirts, often rolled up to the elbows, and brown or tan colored trousers or leggings.  Over that, they were arrayed in brightly colored tunics with hoods.  They kept these hoods pulled up and over their heads, effectively covering their hair and ears as well as casting a shadow over their faces.

Beneath their hoods were the strangest accessories of all: the top halves of their faces were concealed with some sort of mask.  More precisely, they looked like the visors of old war helmets that were detached from their original setting, then modified to obscure as much of their features as possible.  The blunt edges were aligned with the top of the forehead and extended to the tip of the nose.  The eye slits, normally wide and left open (so as not to diminish visibility), was inlaid with a white crystal.  These were cleverly modeled after a two-way mirror so that the creatures could see through them, but he could not see their eyes when he peered at them.

 _‘Hobbits,'_  Thorin realized.  Even if he never really worked with them, he was familiar enough to know it when he saw one, by the feet at least.  But he could not recall noticing the conservative style of their garb before.  It seemed like they were trying to remain hidden and unrecognizable beneath all those layers, but in fact, it made them stand out all the more.

It occurred to him that he might speak to a few of them to gather information, but it was made impossible by their behavior.   _Everyone_ bowed to him in respect as he passed, but while the dwarrows would quickly straighten and take advantage of the chance to talk to their prince, the hobbits would remain bent low with their faces to the ground.  They only resumed their work once Thorin had passed or their dwarrow companions gave them permission, and none of them were inclined to introduce the hobbit workers.

Eventually, Thorin gave up and headed to Dori’s tea shop, hoping that his distant cousin would be more forthcoming.  Nodding to his escort, he abandoned his exploration of the center markets and headed for his destination.

Dori was a member of the Weaver’s Guild, but it had long been his dream to own a tea shop.  It took him many years to scrap together the startup money, he had two younger brothers to care for as well, but he finally managed it about a decade ago.  It wasn’t as popular as the pubs, but he did well enough by all accounts and had a regular customer base.  Members of his guild frequented the shop, as well as some of the elderly dwarrowdams  and nobles.

An arrangement of golden bells fixed atop of the door jingled when Thorin stepped through (he had ordered his guards to wait outside).  He was immediately greeted by a young dwarf, smartly dressed in a violet and silver serving uniform, and a hobbit wearing the same colors in the manner of her people.

“Welcome to our shop!” they chimed together with flourishing bows.  

The hobbit lass stayed low while the dwarf lad straightened.  His mouth formed a little “o” when he recognized Thorin.  “M-master Dori has been expecting you, P-prince Thorin,” he said, trembling and flushed.  “If you’ll please f-follow me...”

Thorin’s eyes strayed to the bowed hobbit, but he smiled kindly and nodded.  

The lad led him towards the back of the shop, expertly dodging around angular, cloth covered tables occupied by other dwarrows and the servers carrying trays of sweet or savory snacks.  Thorin glanced around at the various ornaments on the walls and waved to a few of the customers who hailed him.  He didn’t have time to fully appreciate the meticulously wondrous craftsmanship in everything from the furniture to the paintings, so he made a mental note to ask Dori who he had commissioned for his supplies at some point.

In the back of the shop was the counter where customers would order their tea and other edibles.  A dwarrowdam was seated behind this and the hobbit next to her was weighing out tea leaves into a small bag on a scale.  Shelves on the wall behind them were lined with labeled tins, all supposedly housing more tea leaves, common flavors as well as exotic imports.  A door stood in the middle of the wall between the shelves, and the young dwarf led Thorin through it as the hobbit and dwarrowdam bowed.

“Your highness!  It’s such a pleasure to see you again!  And an honor to have you here in my shop,” Dori exclaimed before Thorin could so much as glance around this new room.  Dori bowed and then clasped Thorin’s offered hand.

“It’s good to see you, Dori,” Thorin said.  He was sincere in the statement.  They had served together on the battlefield, and while Dori possessed a mother-hen personality in his day-to-day life, he was uncommonly strong and brutal in a fight.  He could be a little annoying at times, but he was loyal and caring to a fault.  

“Sit down, please!  May I offer you some tea?  Oh, and there’ll be a fresh batch of scones out of the oven in a moment.  Bilbo?”  Dori turned towards the other occupant in the room.

Thorin followed his line of sight.  In one corner was a brick oven for baking, and a long counter was against the wall next to it.  A small work stool was pushed up to the counter so that the hobbit standing on it could work and reach whatever he needed.  At Dori’s call, he turned around, but he did not, Thorin noticed, immediately scramble to bow.

“Bilbo, would you please prepare that black tea blend we got in the other day and a couple of those blueberry scones when they’re ready?” Dori cleared a small table of baking utensils.

“Of course, Master Dori,” the hobbit replied softly.  He stepped down from the stool and wiped his hands on the apron over his tunic.

“Please have a seat, your highness.”  Dori indicated one of the chairs at the table.

Thorin made himself comfortable and took the opportunity to look around, while Dori cleaned up a little and the hobbit put together refreshments.  The room doubled as a storeroom for silverware, tea sets, additional furniture and small barrels of tea leaves, and kitchen space to bake all of the treats that were served with drinks.  It was warmed and lit by an additional fireplace in another corner, well away from the flammable leaves.

Dori’s hobbit assistant was dressed in the same way as the rest of his kind, but his tunic was the violet and silver colors of the shop.  The sleeves of his undershirt and the apron were stained with frosting, flour and bits of dough.  There was flour on his face as well, likely from trying to mop away the sweat with his dirty hands.  

His violet hood was pulled up over his head, but that did not prevent a few strands of honey-gold hair from falling over his forehead.  His mask, unlike most of the others that Thorin had seen, was crafted from black steel, and when he came close enough for Thorin to get a better look, he saw that it was etched with runes, flowing elvish vines, and what looked like withered flowers.  As with the rest of his people, his eyes were concealed behind the white crystals in the sockets of the mask.

Dori took a seat across from Thorin and the hobbit set a tray between them with two steaming cups of tea and a plate of hot pastries.

“Thanks,” Thorin nodded when the hobbit set a cup before him.

He jolted as though not expecting to be addressed by the prince, let alone thanked, and turned his face towards Thorin, presumably staring at him.  

“Thank you, Bilbo.  That will be all,” Dori said.

The hobbit glanced at him and nodded.  He turned to resume his work at the counter.

Dori cleared his throat.  “Bilbo, aren’t you forgetting something?”  There was a nervous edge to this question.

The hobbit, Bilbo, whirled back around.  His lips were tightly pressed together, and Thorin could see the skin of his cheeks turning red.  A vein, barely visible on his shadowed neck, pulsated, and his hands clenched the serving tray tightly.

Dori glared at him and tilted his head to Thorin.

Bilbo clutched the tray to his chest and angled his body to Thorin.  He gave a stiff bow, his face to the ground, but Thorin had the impression that this was done against his wishes.  He did not wait for either Thorin or Dori to dismiss him.  Instead, he straightened instantly and went back to work.

Dori exhaled and said, “Please do not punish him, my prince.  He’s endured so much loss recently, and I’m afraid it’s affected his manners.”

Thorin furrowed his brows.  “Why in Durin’s name would I punish him?”

Dori blinked at him incredulously.  “The law states that all hobbits must bow to any and all dwarrows who live in the middle and upper districts or hold any sort of title or rank.  They are not to rise until they have been given permission to do so, either by the recipient of the bow or by a dwarf who would vouch for them, such as an employer.”

Thorin crossed his arms.  “I was not aware of such a law.”

A derisive snort came from Bilbo, and Thorin glanced over at him.  

Dori explained, “There is a very strict code of conduct that the hobbits must adhere to while they live as guests,” another snort, “in Erebor, all mandated by law.  It decrees everything from the way they dress to the things they are allowed to say.  The laws were set forth by your grandfather, Thròr.  But anyway...”  He took a sip of his tea and reached for a scone.  “You’re not here for a lesson in politics.  Balin said you had a more specific concern regarding hobbits.”

Thorin nodded and helped himself to a scone as well.  At the first bite, his eyes lit up in pleasure.  “Indeed I did.  This is delicious, by the way.  Did Balin fill you in on everything?”

Dori nodded.  “Yes... well, he told me enough.  I’m not entirely sure how I can help though.  I’m afraid I’ve never heard a hobbit sing, let alone in the way that Balin described.  Bilbo hums sometimes while he works, but that is as much exposure to hobbit music as I’ve had.  Oh, and Bilbo made those.  A family recipe or something, isn’t that right?” He raised his voice so the hobbit could hear.

“Yes, Master Dori,” came an automatic reply.

“Come to think of it,” Dori mumbled, “Bilbo, come here for a moment.  Maybe _you_ can help.”

The hobbit sighed and stepped down from his stool again.  He came over and stood closer to Dori.  “Yes?” he asked.

Dori frowned at the reluctant behavior, but did not criticize it out loud.  “Last year, Prince Thorin overheard a single hobbit with a beautiful voice performing many different songs over the course of the season, but he was unable to find him.  He’d like to meet this hobbit, whoever he was.  Might you possibly know anything that could help him discover the identity of the singer and arrange a meeting?”

The mask and hood prevented them from seeing his expression at this inquiry.  Bilbo shifted to face Thorin.  “What is your purpose in seeking this hobbit?” he asked, a note of suspicion in his voice.

Thorin took a drink of his tea to hide his embarrassment.  He still did not fully understand his own obsession with _Ik-kemath_.  “My reasons are my own,” he said haughtily.  “I am the prince of this kingdom and I do not have to explain myself to a halfling.”

He had a made a grave error in his choice of words.  At once, Bilbo lunged at Thorin, and might have knocked him off his chair had Dori not intervened.  Thorin unconsciously kicked the floor to back away from the thrashing hobbit.

Bilbo launched into a tirade of words in a foreign tongue, the same language that was sung by _Ik-kemath_.  Thorin did not understand them, but he hazarded a guess that none of what was said was flattering.  “Looking for a show, are you?  Or a pet?  Do you mean to lock him away in a cage, to be brought out for your entertainment?” he screamed in Westron.

Dori pulled the hobbit further away from Thorin with no effort whatsoever, but that did not stop Bilbo from struggling.  “Shame on you, Bilbo!  That’s no way to talk to Prince Thorin.  Settle down, now!  You could be killed for this!”

But Bilbo was not listening.  “You would dare demand help from me while my people are dying?  You would ask this other hobbit to sing for your amusement while his heart is lamenting the death of his family?  How dare you?!”

Thorin didn’t miss the hint that Bilbo might, in fact, know the identity of _Ik-kemath_ , if he knew details about a family.  But he latched onto the first statement instead.  He stood up.  “Dying?  What are you talking about?”

“As if you didn’t know,” Bilbo snarled.  “You and every other dwarf in this cursed kingdom!  You turn a blind eye to the indignities of my people!  You send us away when we come to you for help!  Your healers ignore our pleas and refuse to share your medicines for the Coughing Death!”

“Coughing Death?” Thorin repeated.

Dori interrupted before Bilbo went off again.  “The coughing virus that was going around a few weeks ago.  Apparently, the hobbits are far more susceptible to it.  Unfortunately, they don’t have enough medicine of their own to go around.”

“And none of your healers will give us any, even though we’ve offered to pay with everything we have!  They are content to let us die in agony!  And you... you are the same!  You would ask favors of me, of my kin, in the midst of our sorrow and suffering?  You are no better than your grandfather!  That arrogant, mad...”

Dori picked up the hobbit and shook him.  “That’s enough!  You don’t know what you’re saying!”  He carried Bilbo to the door.  “I’m sorry, lad, but I must ask you to leave now.  And I’m afraid that you cannot come back.  Insulting _any_ dwarf carries a grave punishment, and this is the prince you’re talking about.  He could have you executed!  Go now, and pray that your life will be spared.”

Once Dori set him down, Bilbo removed his apron and threw it on the floor.  He spat venomously in Thorin’s direction and stomped out, slamming the door behind him.

Dori hurried back over and ushered Thorin to his seat.  “I am so, so sorry about this, your highness.  Bilbo’s usually one of the most polite, respectable hobbits anyone could meet, but he hasn’t been himself lately.  Poor lad’s favorite cousin died from the Coughing Death and left a widow and a wee orphan in his care.  He’s stressed and grieving, and I’m sure he didn’t mean anything he said.”

Thorin had endured plenty of insults before, typically from elves and dwarrow nobles who disagreed with his views in council, but he never took it well.  He had a bit of a temper, and questions about his sanity or honor were the most easy triggers.  He was greatly rattled by the comparison to his grandfather, for although he had loved Thròr dearly, the madness that had guided his actions in the last days of his life had been costly.  He would most certainly have lashed out at the hobbit in turn, were it not for the troubling information he’d supplied.

“Is it true... what he said?  About the healers refusing to help?” Óin was the only healer Thorin knew personally, and although he was gruff and half-deaf, he was also very kind.  Thorin couldn’t imagine Óin would turn away _anyone_ unless they were completely beyond aid.

Dori had kept still while Thorin was thinking, likely waiting to gauge his reaction to the hobbit’s accusations.  He looked relieved at the question.  “I’m afraid so,” Dori answered quietly.  “The coughing virus affected so many of our kind, and the clinics are paranoid about running out of medicinal herbs before spring.  They’ve been told to prioritize our own, regardless of the severity of the illness.  Even something as small as a dwarf with a headache will be treated by the healers over a hobbit with a fatal sickness.”

“That’s absurd,” Thorin growled.  “The hobbits are our allies, are they not?  Isn’t it our duty to protect them in exchange for the goods they grow during the year?”

“Yes, but things have changed.  I cannot claim to have a full understand of their suffering, or the circumstances that have led to their plight.  I’ve always liked hobbits actually; they’re quite agreeable, if a little fussy sometimes.  But Thròr, I think, did not trust them, and so he enacted many unusual laws in regards to them later in life.  I don’t know all of them, and the ones I do, I like even less.  But punishments for disobedience are usually harsh, and I have no choice but to obey and enforce them,” Dori said.

“That is why I was most surprised to learn that you have taken a liking to one of them, even if you’ve never met him.  I was under the impression that you felt the same as... well, as your grandfather.”

Thorin noticed that Dori was a little fearful to inform him of his assumption.  “Your impression was a bit inaccurate, but I don’t blame you for that.”  He picked up his tea again, thinking hard.  “I suppose that I didn’t think much of hobbits, but I certainly don’t _hate_ them.  And so I never bothered to learn about them.”  He paused, and then forced himself to confess, “I am wholly ignorant in anything to do with them.”

He did not like to admit his failings or weaknesses.  He knew that he had them, but it cost him a great deal of pride to own up to them.  But he was also not one to sit idly in the face of them.  If he discovered a flaw within himself, he was adamant that he should fix it, no matter the time or work it would require.  “I must correct this at once.  Both my ignorance, and this ridiculous policy of refusing to treat the hobbits for the coughing sickness,” he decided.

“How will you do that?” Dori wondered.  “It will be difficult enough to get the healers, never mind the king, to agree to help them.  Even if you do manage that, the hobbits probably won’t trust you, especially after Bilbo tells them about what happened here.  He’s related to their leader, the Thain, I think, and hobbits are terrible gossips.  They’ll all know about your request by the end of the day.  And who knows how they’ll react to it?”

Thorin stroked his short beard.  “That could work to my advantage as well.  I have been trying to be discreet about it all, but so far, that hasn’t helped me find the hobbit I’m looking for.   Perhaps if _all_ of the hobbits hear of it...”  He finished the musings in his head.   _‘Maybe Ik-kemath will learn of it and come find me of his own accord.’_  

The beginnings of a plan were taking shape in his mind.  Thorin stood up and held out a hand to Dori.  “Forgive me, but I must go.  Thank you for your time.”

Dori shook his hand.  “Of course, sire.  I am sorry that I haven’t been much help.  And I am sorry again, about... about Bilbo.  If I may be so bold, please do not punish him too severely.”

“Hmm?  Oh no, I have no plans to punish that hobbit at all.  And you _have_ been a good help, whether you know it or not.”

Dori looked grateful.  “I am glad to hear that, your highness.  Please allow me to escort you out.  And do let me know if there’s anything else I can do to be of assistance.”

Thorin nodded to him.  “I may just take you up on that.  Good night, Dori.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued...
> 
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